"It must have been something, to make you sleep through karate class," Jack said. I peered past him at the clock. It was seven thirty. I'd been asleep about two hours, I realized with a great deal of astonishment. I could count the naps I'd taken as an adult on the fingers of one hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good," I said. "Let me go clean up a little. My mouth is gummy. I can't believe I feel asleep."

When I came back from the bathroom I was sure I was awake, and I knew I felt much better. I'd washed my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Jack looked calmer, but he was angry now, the false phone call having upset him badly.

"Did you try calling me before you rushed back from Little Rock?" That would have left the puzzle of who had called him, but relieved his anxiety.

Jack looked guilty. "Once."

"No answer."

"No."

"Did you try my cell phone?"

"Yes."

I took it from the table and looked at it. I'd never turned it on that day. "Okay, let me tell you where I was." I could hardly upbraid Jack because he had rushed back to Shakespeare under the impression I was in deep trouble, either physically or emotionally. "I was at the police station."

Jack's dark brows arched up. "Really?" He was determined not to overreact, now.

"Yes. I was there because of the new patrolman."

"The red-haired guy?" There wasn't much Jack didn't notice.

"The very one. It turns out he's Gerry McClanahan, all right, but he's also the true-crime writer Gibson Banks."

"Oh, no." Jack had been standing by the window looking out at the darkness of the cloudy night. Now he came and sat beside me on the love seat. He closed his eyes for a second as he assessed the damage this would do us. When he opened them, he looked like he was facing a firing squad. "God, Lily. This is going to be so bad. All over again."

"He's not after us. We're only an interesting sidelight to him, something he just happened on. Serendipity." I could not stop my voice from being bitter or my face from being grim.

Jack looked at me as though I better not draw this out. So I told him quickly and succinctly what Gerry McClanahan, aka Gibson Banks, had proposed to me. And what I had done.

"I could kill him," Jack said. I looked at Jack's face, and believed him. "I can't believe the son-of-a-bitch made you that offer." When Jack got mad, he got mad all over; there was no mistaking it. He was furious. "I'm going to go over and talk to him right now."

"No, please, Jack." I took his hands. "You can't go over there mad. Besides, he might be on patrol." I had a flash of an idea, something about Jack and his temper and impulsive nature, but in the urgency of the moment it went by me too fast for me to register it.

"Then I'll find him in his car." Jack shook my hands off. I could see that something about my becoming pregnant had smothered Jack's sure knowledge that I was a woman who could definitely take care of herself. Or maybe it was because our brief life together was being threatened; that was what had shaken me so badly.

"You can come with me if you're afraid I'll kill the bastard," Jack said, reading me correctly. "But I'm going to talk to him tonight." Again, I felt as if I ought to be drawing a conclusion, as if somewhere in my brain a chime was ringing, but I couldn't make the necessary connections.

I didn't feel as though I had enough energy left to walk to the car, much less trail after Jack over to the writer's house. But I had to. "Okay. Let's go," I said, getting to my feet. I pulled my cheap rain slicker from the little closet in the living room, and Jack got his. I grabbed my cell phone. "We need to take the car," I said, trying not to sound as shaky as I felt. "I don't want to walk in the dark."

That didn't fool Jack. I could see he knew I was weak. He shot me a sharp look as he fished his car keys from his pocket, and I saw that even concern for my well-being was not about to divert him from his goal of confronting the writer. Jack waited, barely holding his impatience in check, until I climbed in the passenger's seat, and then we were off. Jack even drove mad.

There were lights on in the small house. Oh, hell, McClanahan was home. No matter how he'd upset me that day, I'd found myself wishing he'd be at the police station, or out on patrol, anything but home alone. I got out of the passenger seat to follow Jack up the sidewalk to the front door. He banged on it like the cop he'd formerly been.

No answer.

The author could have looked out to see who was visiting, and decided to remain silent. But Gerry had struck me as a man who would relish such a confrontation, just so he could write about it afterward.

Jack knocked again.

"Help!" shouted a man's voice, from behind the house. "Help me!"

I vaulted over the railing around the porch and landed with both feet on the ground, giving my innards a jolt that sent them reeling. Oh, God, it hurt. I doubled over gasping while Jack passed me by. He paused for a second, and I waved my hand onward, urging him to go to the help of whoever was yelling.

I was sure I needed to go home to wash myself and change my pad. I felt I was leaking blood at the seams. But the pain abated, and I walked to the voices I was hearing at the back of the house.

I could barely make out Jack and—was that Cliff Eggers?—bent over something huddled in the darkness by the corner of the hedge that separated the rear of this house from the house behind it. I could see the back of Tamsin's house to my right, and its rear light was shining benignly over the back door. There was a bag of garbage abandoned on the ground beside Cliff, who was covered with dark splotches. I'd only seen him dressed for work, but I could make out that Cliff was wearing only a formerly white T-shirt and ancient cutoff shorts.

"Don't come closer, Lily," Jack called. "This is a crime scene."

So I squatted in the high grass next to the house, while I eased the cell phone out of my pocket. I tossed it to Jack, who punched in the numbers.

"This is Jack Leeds. I'm at 1404 Mimosa," he said. "The man living here, Gerry McClanahan, a police officer, has been killed."

I could hear the squawk of the dispatcher over the phone. I pushed myself up and leaned over the steps at the back porch, which was covered by a roof. There was a light switch. I flipped it up, and the backyard was flooded with a generous amount of light.

Gerry was on his stomach, and underneath his head was a thick pool of blood.

"Yes, I'm sure he's dead," Jack said, circling his thumb and forefinger to thank me for turning on the light. "No, I won't move him."

Jack pressed "end" on the phone and tossed it back to me. Cliff, big burly Cliff, was crying. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, staring down at the body on the ground beside him, his face contorted with strong emotions. I couldn't figure out which feeling would get the prize for dominant, but I figured shock was right up there. There was a hole in the hedge to allow passage between the yards, and in that hole lay another white garbage bag cinched at the top.

"I came out to put the garbage in the can," he said, his voice thick with tears. "I heard a sound back here and I came to look."

"What's happened to him?" I felt I should know.

"There's a knife in him," Jack answered.

"Oh my God," Cliff said, his voice no more than a whisper, and the night around us, the pool of light at the back of Cliff's house, became alien in the blink of an eye, as we all thought about a knife and the person who'd wielded it. I have a particular fear of knives. I found myself crossing my arms across my breasts, huddling to protect my abdomen. I was feeling more vulnerable, more frightened, than I had in years. I thought it was because my hormones were bouncing up and down, perhaps, unbalanced by my lost pregnancy, a word that still gave me a jolt when I thought of it.